The Soul Rescuer
by Dr Megalomania
Summary: A Sequal to a previous story, 'La Nausee et Heero' (not vital, but necessary to understand the type of story). Trowa Barton is a bartender and lover of his boss, Quatre Winner. He is also sick of being ignored, he leaves. This is a story of reflection, lo


Disclaimer: I state for the record that I don't own Gundam Wing, or the wonderful characters that will be gracing this story . . . Le Nausée is a book by Jean Paul Sartre, a French existentialist, the father of modern existentialism! I, I myself, am an Existentialist, and refuse to believe that anyone, or anything else can make my purpose!  
Okay, that's the legal stuff out the way!  
((Thinking))  
"Speaking"  
Stress/Emphasis

SPECIAL NOTE: Be aware that it's actually really, really, really, really early. Started at 11pm and finished totally at 3 am. I've listened to the same tracks of the Hellsing – the anime, not the film – OST over and over again. And one of them is called Soul Rescuer. That song has nothing to do with this. The title though does. I think it was my jumping board. The lyrics are particularly from another Hellsing song; I don't know what the actual words are even though they are in English. I think there is a bit that says, "You never tell me, you never tell me, you never say you love me too." I dunno. Anyway, this story is told from Trowa's point of view and I have to admit, I am so not impressed by his actions. He and Quatre are both being very bad existentialists, by asking the other to validate their reasons and their actions, they are not taking the responsibility of their actions sincerely enough. Trowa should no need Quatre to tell him he loves him, neither should Quatre ask Trowa to ask him to stay. They should both act independently, and because they do not they are unhappy.  
Why Gundam Wing? I don't know.   
Why is everyone so out of character? I'm not entirely sure.  
Why don't I follow a normal storyline? I can't tell.  
Will you learn anything life changing? Depends on you.  
You've come this far, why not keep going?  
WARNINGS: Severe out of character-ness, probably messed up plot, and a lot of bad words. It's not meant to be funny, but it's not meant to be serious. It's not meant to be a lemon, but it's not meant to be a sweet romance. It's not meant to be anything other than what you make of it.  
I present to you . . .

_The Soul Rescuer_  
By Doctor Megalomania

_You never tell me, darling._  
_You never say the words._  
_You never say you love me too._  
_I hate that about you._  
_I hate that about us._  
_I hate that I always tell you._  
_And I still love you, do you know that?_

I love him. There I've said it. I probably shouldn't, but you never know. Maybe today will be the day. Today might be the day, he will say: Hell, I love you too. It hurts and he does not seem to know. When he smiles like that, nods and then moves on. I want to be more to him than just me. Just a fuck. Just a shoulder. Just an ear. I want to be more than a body part to him. But I won't be, will I? He is happy with our life. It does not need to change because he is happy. When I wake in the morning, he is already dressed. Reading his newspaper. Drinking his tea. Far away from me as he plans his day.  
I rise from bed. I'm already feeling the love I hold for him slip away. I don't want to love him any more. I'm tired. Tired of the way he looks at me. Tired of the way he doesn't look at me. I'm tired, but he doesn't see that. I don't let him that close anymore. When we fuck, we do so in the dark. When we dine, we face each other without looking up from our plates. I'm tired of the others in his life. Where time was once made for me, time is made for others and I am made to squeeze in between the business hours and bed.  
I don't love him anymore. I tell myself that every time I catch my eye in the mirror. He's becoming a memory for me. I brush my teeth, wash my body. With every splash, I tell myself: I'm going to tell him. I'm leaving him tomorrow. My sister has offered to let me tend bar at The Circus. It is an underground club for poets, quiet and attracts various philosophers and artists. I shall enjoy it.  
I shall enjoy being far from his lovers.  
I shall enjoy being far from his body.  
Does romance mean anything to him? I spit and gargle as I ponder this. I stare into the mirror and wonder why he took me. Why I am taken with him. I am tall, deposed to wearing nothing upon my face. Expression has become foreign to me, even in his company. Once where he would inspire me to smile, I feel hard put to do it anymore.   
I envy Heero. He has escaped him. He has escaped his smiles, his pull, his sexuality. He has flown into the arms of his cousin, the American. There he is safe. No longer does he find escape in his laptop, or release in his body. I stare at my naked self in the mirror. I am trapped.  
I envy Wufei. He too has escaped him. Since the death of the Mayor Krushrenda, he and the Baron, Marquise have become lovers exclusively. Lieutenant Noin has disappeared – some call it 'convenience', and some whisper 'murder' in the same breath. I stare into my own green eyes. I am lost.  
When the telephone rings, he answers with the voice of one who speaks to a lover. He is hushed, trying to not be heard through the locked bathroom door. For a moment, I ask myself why I have locked the door to him then remember. It is because I do not care for his hands to roam my body. Hands that I know have roamed other flesh, hands I know could not care less if it was my body or another's.  
Hands that once I worshiped.  
I stare at my own hands. I listen to him laugh. I wonder how I will survive this heartbreak. I do not love him, I will tell myself. I am moving away, I will tell him. I cannot see him anymore, I will tell his bodyguard. I pity you; I will tell his other lovers. I have escaped, I will tell God.  
The morning will pass, and it is not until lunch when I become confident enough to draw him aside. He looks at me with confusion; with amusement he tells me that I must wait until tonight.  
I will not.  
His smile freezes on his face as I tell him what, it fades as I tell him when. When I arrive at why, tears have appeared. However I cannot recant. I will not bend this time, "I do not love you anymore". He asks me when I stopped. I tell him, "When Heero left you, when Wufei left you and you complained that you had no one to satisfy your needs."  
He blinks and a tear rolls down his cheek. I watch it detachedly, wondering what emotion forced it from his eye. He tells me all of it was said in jest.  
I decide that his humour was as faked as everything is about him. When he moves to embrace me, I step away. He looks at me with shock, and begin to weep openly. When Hilde comes to remind him that our lunch has ended, he tells her to shut the shop. I am surprised.  
He presses his hand against his heart and looks at me.  
"Why? Why?"  
He asks over and over again, and I can tell him nothing but that: "I don't love you anymore. I don't want you anymore. I don't like the way you make me feel about myself. I want to forget you."  
Fear fills his eyes and he drops to his knees. He bows his head and I am vaguely surprised to witness him grieve for our lost relationship. He calls my name, screams it in fact. Yet I am silent, unmoved by what I see. He clutches at his chest, he is in pain. "Do not leave," he says though his sobs. I find no words to say, other than, "I must. I do not love you."  
I walk away from him, even when him call to me. Even when Hilde tries to stop me, when the lingering customers stare at me; I continue to walk. I walk out of his café, out of his service, out of his life. And for six months, I hear nothing about him. The Circus is a good place, much different from your café. I see Wufei much more. He steps out with his lover; they watch the performances and retire to the quietest corner to discuss their reactions.  
I see Heero and Duo occasionally. Duo takes the stage and reads many of Heero's works. Heero sit by the bar, nodding, sipping his drink, patiently listening. He joins the applause only to commend his lover; his flawless reading makes Heero's work come to life. Even though I see him almost every night, Duo says nothing about Quatre for so long I begin to wonder if perhaps he has forgotten about me. It is not until a dark, cloudy night in March does Duo bring him up in his conversation.  
"Quatre has asked about you." Duo says casually while Heero visits the bathroom. He swirls his drink in his glass, before bring his violet eyes to meet mine. "I wonder what I should tell him."  
I do not answer at first, I do not know what to say. I clean a glass, then clean another and only when Heero returns and they collect their things to leave do I finally reply, "Tell him that I am well."  
"I shall." Duo promises with a smile and, without another word, leaves with Heero. It is another month before he asks me again what he should tell Quatre. And again I tell him to answer that I am well. Then, before they can leave, I open my mouth again. "Tell him that I wish him well."  
Duo nods and leaves, wishing my sister on the way out a good evening.  
And so, once a month for a year Duo asks me the same question, and every time I give the same answer, tell him I am well, that I wish him well. It is not until a rainy evening, almost two years after Quatre and I have separated that I see him again. It was a Friday night, I was locking up for my sister. Duo and Heero were my last customers and Duo had not had a chance to ask me the question until this last moment. As we walked to the door he asked, as I locked I answered. We parted as I turned to address the second lock. As I pulled up my collar, I saw his limo parked at the end of the road. Heero and Duo were entering and there he was. Rashid stood in the rain, umbrella held faithfully over the open door. Heero had already entered and I saw him as Duo bent to slide into the car. Quatre blinked and stared at me, his lips parted. A smile passed over his lips.  
I stared for a moment before turning away. My bus would leave had I stayed and I have no money for a taxi.  
The next month passed, and once again Duo asked his question. I answered again, that I was well and that I wished Quatre well. I did not ask about Quatre, nor the moment we saw each other. I had felt nothing at that moment. No sense of recognition, no pull of my heart as I watch him smile so gently. His smiles were so carefully crafted, I had always admired that about him. That he could so cynically engineer his expressions. But, no I did not ask because I felt not need to. I did not love him.  
I heard him mentioned in a conversation, two of his lovers were complaining as I served them.   
"He has no appetite for life anymore, he is boring." Said one, pushing his glass back and forth.  
"Poor Quatre," replied his companion, "his lover deserted him."  
"Which one?" Laughed the first, "it seems that since he lost his love of life, his lovers have lost his attention."  
When Duo came to ask his question, again he and Heero were the last customers and I was to lock up again. I replied that I was well and paused. Duo looked at me, his violet eyes blinking in the dim light. "How is Quatre?" I asked finally.  
"He is broken hearted." Duo did not smile. "He is in bed. He does not rise. He asks for you every day."  
"You do not ask every day." I replied, I felt a small frown upon my brow. "I cannot help that we are no longer together."  
"You say you cannot help it." Duo said, "it is your choice that you stay away."  
I am struck, how can I explain to Duo that I was forced away by him? That it is his fault that I cannot stand to be with him anymore? Duo cannot understand it, will not understand it. Our conversation is ended and I lock the café again. I find myself walking, enjoying the night air. It is close to three in the morning and I find that I must walk. I walk here and there, I walk in the park, I walk in the streets. I walk until I am stood under his window. His light is doused. I stare at it and wonder is he entertaining tonight. His lovers' discussion would have been a ploy, Duo's answers rehearsed. I do not think that Quatre is capable of love.  
I walk away. Promising never to return.  
It becomes a habit. Each night when Duo asks, I lock up and walk to stand under his window. I walk away, reminded why I cannot love him any more.  
Three years have passed, I am older. I have my own lovers, those I take to bed and do not bother to keep. Wufei and his lover, Zechs, have left France. I believe Wufei's wife has gotten wind of his affair. She is dead. Some call it 'convenience' and in the same breath whisper 'Suicide'.  
Duo and Heero continue to live their lives as they have always done. Heero is published now; he hates the media, the critics who dislike his strong views against fighting and warfare. Duo supports him emotionally, even as Heero pays for him. I do not understand their relationship. Duo is expressive, yet rarely receives love from his lover. Heero, at best, seems to tolerate his lover's presence.  
Duo continues to ask his question, and I have answered as I ever have done. I understand that Quatre is well enough now, that he has returned to his work, to his lovers. That he has returned to normal. It takes a burden from my heart that I was not aware I had held. Was I worried for him? I do not know why. I clean the bar, the night is slow. Even Duo and Heero stay away in the face of torrential rain. My sister tells me that we should close, even though we have four customers. Three tourists who are lost and one barfly. As my sister pulls out a map to show the tourists where the nearest hostel is, I manage to convince the barfly to move along. I stand at the door, wondering to turn the sign or not. I return to my sister's side to ask her when the door opens again, filling the room with the dampness of the night. Dressed in a raincoat and his hood pulled over his face, he sits at the bar silent and unmoving. I attend him, politely saying, "Sir, we will close soon."  
He looks up and I see that it is Quatre.  
His eyes are wide, he looks pale. His voice falters as he asks for warmed red wine, his hand trembles as he pays.  
I glance at my sister as she tells me she is going to bed. The tourists are gone, and she has a headache from dealing with their poor French. She asks if I can lock up, and I nod. When the wine is warmed, I pour it into a mug, filling it to halfway. Quatre's hand rests on mine, small fingers tightening almost painfully, forcing me to fill it to the top.  
We say nothing to each other aside from his demand for another drink, "Again."  
He drinks. I serve. It is not until the opening of the third bottle that he looks up. He stares at me for a long time, no smile, nothing in his expression. His eyes are wide, glassy with wine or perhaps tears. Perhaps, in the dim light, he appears afraid of something. I wonder why he is here. He slows his drinking, making his latest cup last. I move to the door, hesitating a moment before locking it. When I turn back he is standing, removing his overcoat. Silently, I move to take the coat from him. He gasps, and then grabs my hands. He pulls them to his face, uncaring that he is getting me wet as he pulls at my arms with small grabbing hands. He wraps his wet self in my embrace. His breath is warm against my hands; I think I feel tears roll down my fingers.  
He gasps again and pushes me away. He strips off his coat fully and flings it away; he throws himself into my arms, pressing his face against my chest tightly. I notice that he is dressed in very little. His customary dress sense has deserted him as he reveals to be wearing nothing but a shirt and his suit trousers. He is crying. I feel the tears as they soak my jumper that he is twisting in his fingers. He looks up at me, his eyes are glassy and unfocused. He is drunk. He presses his lips against mine in a hard kiss, then studies my expression. Finding nothing, he kisses me again harder. He is desperate.  
I pull away from him, and pick up his coat from the floor. I give it to him and turn to the door.  
"I have not paid for my last drink." His voice is quiet.  
"I do not care. You may have it on the house."   
His sob is loud in the empty café.  
As he leaves, he pauses. "I could not stand it." He confesses. He looks at me, his eyes filled with tears. "He was not you. His hands were cold. All of their hands are cold. They do not love me. I could not stand it." He pauses to say more, but cannot. He dips his head and, into the dark of the stormy night, he disappears.  
I lay in bed that night with my latest. I stared at her and wondered when I had become so blind. When I had forgotten what Quatre looked like. My latest looked like him, her eyes were blue, her hair was golden. Her passion for life was like a flame, her emotions were controlled tightly. She had come to The Circus and we had slept together that night. Dorothy was her name. Her hands were cold.  
She looked at me in the morning and knew I would not call on her again. She smiled, her smile so cynical. "Who is she?" She asked as she stirred her coffee, "She must be beautiful to make you feel this much."  
I did not answer.  
I did not know until I saw him again. He arrived again as the last customer, again his features hidden from view. But I knew it was him. I served him, polite again as I ask, "What would Sir like?"  
He stares at the counter top before asking for tea. He pays me even though he barely looks up from his consideration of the counter. I notice as I serve him he watches my reflection in the shiny counter, his hand lingers as it pays me. My sister leaves me to lock up and I inform Quatre it is time for him to leave. He stands and leaves, wishing me a quiet good night.  
I realise with a jolt of shock that I am sorry I did not see his eyes. I have loved his eyes, they were once his most open feature. I loved to watch them as we made love, those unguarded moments when he would drop all pretences and let me see him. The real Quatre. I realise that I am a fool.  
Yet I cannot admit it.  
He comes the next night, the last customer to enter and leave. He watches me as I work, but does not meet my eyes as I serve him. His fingers linger as they pass me coins, as I serve him his new drink. He wishes me good night. I want to tell him; thank you is what I want to say. Thank you for those moments you gave me. Yet I cannot. I cannot find the words. Every night he comes, every night he leaves. I cannot find the words.  
"It is raining." I blink, unsure if it was he who spoke or I. He looks at me, he looks at me in the eye. I see his blue eyes for the first time in a month. He nods and glances over his shoulder. I speak again, "You may borrow my coat." He has brought none, it was warm when he arrived. "I have an umbrella."  
He looks at me again and nods. "Thank you." He says quietly, "If you are sure. I shall return it tomorrow."  
I nod, "Thank you."  
As closing time comes, I give him my coat and the umbrella. He steps out before me and opens the umbrella, holding it over me as I lock up. When I am done, he is looking at the ground. "Trowa." He says, "There is a man waiting for me. He is lying in my bed wondering when I am returning." He looks up at me, and digs into a pocket. "I do not want him. He does not love me." He pulls out his phone and stares at it. He swallows and thumbs a number onto the screen. "If you ask it of me, I would call him and tell him to leave."  
"Why should I care whom you have in your bed?" The words escape me before I can censor them, but I do not regret them. I regret the look of pain that passes through his wide blue eyes.  
His hand drops. The phone is held loosely, its screen dulling slowly. "Trowa." He says quietly, "What did I do to make you hate me so?"  
"I do not hate you." I reply coolly, "I simple do not care."  
With this, he hands me my umbrella and walks away. He disappears into the night. I have lied.  
It is not until Valentines Day that I see him again. It has been four years since I walked out of his café. Seven months since he last disappeared into the night. The Circus is busy, it is filled to capacity. So busy are we that I do not notice him until my eye catches his. He is sat at the very end of the bar, waiting patiently. He looks tired. Finally, I am able to go to him and he smiles. "Trowa." He says, "Trowa, I have come to say goodbye."   
I tilt my head, he has more to say.  
"I am going to America with Duo. I think perhaps if I enjoy it, I shall stay." He watches my face carefully, "I want to say goodbye to you." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. "I will not return your coat." He says and pushes three hundred francs to me. It is more than I bought my coat for. He smiles and touches my hand as I try to return two hundred. "Trowa." He says, a pain comes across his face. "I would stay if you ask me. If you say you forgive me, not even that you just say that you forgive me without meaning it, I would stay." He breathes, his voice becomes choked with emotion and he laughs. He is embarrassed.  
I draw him behind the bar, and nod to the new barmaid, Sally. She and my sister will do without me as I take Quatre into the kitchen. He sits at the table as I make him tea.   
"I promised I would not cry." He says more to himself than to me, "Yet here I am. I am sorry Trowa, I do not mean to draw you away from your work."  
"It is nothing." I answer, I fold my arms and lean against the counter. I watch the kettle. When I bore of this, I turn my gaze on him and find him clenching his jaw and holding his fists tightly against the table. He stares at the fruit bowl with a ferocity I have rarely ever seen. He is angry.  
"Quatre." I say, "It is nothing. You are upset, I would not leave you to the gossip mongers."  
"I know." He grounds out, "But…" he pauses and draws a breath, he calms down. "I wanted to show you…" The kettle boils and I move to make his tea. As I set it before him, he finally finishes, "I wanted to show you that I was strong enough to leave." Emotion deepens his breath again, and angrily he jabs at his eyes, wiping away the tears that threaten to fall. "But," he continues, "but here I am. Crying, pleading you to forgive me… begging to keep your coat." He chokes and turns away from me. It hurts me in a way I cannot explain. He regains himself and sips at his tea. He grimaces and automatically I reach to add more sugar. A broken smile surfaces on his face as he watches my hand move over his tea.  
He finishes his tea in silence, I watch him. He watches me.   
"Another?" I ask.  
He shakes his head, "You should return to work. I must leave, I have arrangements to make."  
"You are leaving?"  
He looks at me and nods, "Yes. I cannot stay anymore, I cannot live like this." He stares at his hands, "I rejoice whenever you ask me what I want to drink. When you said my name, I thought I would die." He looks at me, "I take more pleasure in touching your hand albeit for a moment than I do in an hour of sex. Trowa." His eyes are clear, "I am sorry." I look at him. I do not know the words to tell him what I feel. I do not know how I feel. It is not until he has left, I know that I wished he did not leave.  
On the morning of his departure, around three in the morning, I find myself staring at his window. It is dark. I cannot stand it. I cannot stand it. I cannot stand it! I climb up to his window and sit on his broad window sill. It is something I have done before, a long time ago before he had hired me to be his bartender. I do it again and peer into his window. It is unlatched. I push it open and enter, moving quietly. Quatre is alone in bed. He is staring at the ceiling.  
He looks at me with dead eyes before getting up. I notice that my coat is draped over his pillow, lying beside him as a lover should. He sits on the edge of his bed and looks at me. I come toward him and kneel before him. He stares at me as a man dreaming, a vague smile rising on his lips. "I knew you would come." He whispers and I know he does not believe it is truly me. He licks his dry lips, it is a quick movement, his careful sexuality is abandoned as he whispers to his dream, "I knew you would come." His arms raise, his hands reach for me but he pauses. His eyes close in pain, "No. I can't touch, you'll leave."   
"I won't." I tell him, "I can't."  
"You will." He denies me, his eyes opening, "You must."  
It is I that makes the first move. I touch my hand to his knee, then up to his cheek. I rock forward on my knees and kiss him, gently. His lips are warm, his cheek is damp with tears that have passed. He shudders, his arms wrapping about my neck. 'Do not leave me.' He tells me without words. 'I can't withstand it. You haven't forgiven me.'  
We make love in darkness, we nap for a while, no more than half an hour before – with the rising sun – we make love again. He stares at me with disbelieving eyes, his soft voice in my ears whispering prayers to Allah, "Let this dream never end. Let me die before it ends."  
I move in him, over him. I move so he can look into my eyes. "Do not leave me." I tell him, becoming rougher as I grow afraid, "You cannot. I haven't found the words to tell you yet."  
He smiles, "I will never leave. I shall die. I shall die!" He laughs as I move in him harder, his fingers dig into my back, "Allah take my life, I shall die happy now!" He kisses me desperately, I kiss him jealously. He does not accept that I am here, even as I am rough with him. He cries out, clenching me to him. "Trowa!" His lips crush mine, my hands lace in his hair and pull. When we part for air, I call out his name. "Forgive me," he sobs, "forgive me before I die!"  
I hold him. As we reach our climax, I hold him. His neck and shoulder is sticky with sweat but I do not care as I press my face against them. His hands dig into my back, but I do not care as he claws me. I've found the words, in that perfect moment, I finally found the words. I whisper them over and over again, even as I come down from this high. I whisper them to him. I raise up on my elbows and lean over him, even as I am kissing him gently, I whisper the words.  
When he opens his eyes and looks at me, I see that he knows me. That I am no dream. That I have forgiven him. I see him smile, a beautiful bright smile which treasure in my heart. We kiss and when the phone rings, he answers. I am curled behind him as he tells his cousin to leave without him, that he is happy to stay in France now.  
We do not make love again, we sleep the morning away.  
When I awaken again, he is there. His hands are warm.

And Now It's Time To LEAVE IT TO DOCTOR MEGALOMANIA!  
DrM: … once again, I am struck by the total lack of meaning behind this story. Actually that's a lie. There is meaning behind this one, but it's not a meaning I'm sure I like. I think the moral of the story is to act on your emotions and stop thinking so much. Trowa would have been able to make up with Quatre after the first month if he had simply stopped trying to blame Quatre for not saying 'I love you' enough.  
Wing: You think?  
DrM: kind of. I mean, Quatre did love him but I think Trowa just wasn't demonstrative enough therefore Quatre curbed his method of showing love. I see Trowa as a person who relies on words too much and Quatre one who relies on actions too much. When Trowa leaves, pretty much without a word, Quatre's at a loss because he doesn't know what to do.  
Wing: What about the other lovers? I mean Quatre's a right little slut. And so is Trowa …  
DrM: wince That's … harder to explain, I mean since this is a sort of sequel to the Nausea and Heero… Quatre is presented as a very sexual character, while Trowa is very repressed. I suppose I took that idea and ran with it. I blame the fact this story took three whole hours to write, no break, same twelve tracks of music playing over and over again.  
Wing: You're blaming it on the Hellsing OST?  
DrM: it is VERY weird.  
Wing: You are a very lousy liar.  
DrM:reads over fic again and so is Trowa! He's constantly lying to himself. He makes himself sick because he's not recognising he's lying to himself. Which is how he's experiencing the nausea. He's being a bad existentialist.  
Wing: you are being a bad student. Will you go to sleep please and leave the damned story alone! hits DrM It's 2.45 am, missy and you've gotta go to college early tomorrow! Get!   
DrM: but I wanna analyse my work some more!  
Wing: do it over at your live journal… frowns Hey! You just had me plug your bloody live journal! hits DrM again Damn you, go to bed! These A/Ns are NOT funny at all because you're too tired! DrM slinks off to bed Finally! Now, please review or leave a comment! Thank you!


End file.
